Real Dirty (Real Dirty #1)

Ripley rolls her eyes and pulls down the handle to start the glass filling with beer.

The stereo system kicks over to Willie Nelson and I take a drink, appreciating her heavy hand with the Jack as it slides down my throat. I soak up the music and old-school atmosphere as Frisco and Ripley talk. Pearl returns from the restroom and starts up a conversation with her husband about something that happened in 1967.

I let it all wash over me, and the bullshit weighing me down slips away.

So I may not have gotten engaged tonight, but there’s no time limit on that. I did, however, debut a kick-ass new single and got to put my sweet new ride through her paces.

The only worry I’ve got left is what happened to Amber. My phone stays silent in my pocket, and worst-case scenarios play through my head until I push them away.

Two hours later, my question is answered in a way I never could have guessed.





5





Ripley





The back door flies open, slamming against the brick wall. Unfortunately, it’s not a new customer to bring the nightly total of patrons up to five and the current count up to three now that Earl and Pearl have gone home.

No, it’s my least reliable waitress.

Brandy Lear has never been accused of being dependable or intelligent, and if she weren’t my only cousin, I would have fired her dozens of times over.

It’s almost two hours after midnight, so I have no freaking clue why she would even bother showing up for work so late.

“Rip, I need some money.” Brandy holds out her hand as she picks her way across the worn concrete floor of the bar on icepick heels.

“Dirty whore,” a squawking voice croaks out.

“Dammit,” I whisper under my breath. Esteban has been asleep long enough in his cage that I’d half wondered if the ancient African Gray parrot had finally kicked the bucket. But no, all it took was Brandy’s voice to wake him up.

“The f*ck was that?” Boone Thrasher whips around, looking toward the corner of the bar where the voice came from. A huge purple cloth covers Esteban’s cage, so he’s not readily apparent.

“Shut up, you dumbass bird,” Brandy hollers at the corner. With her slurred words and smudged heavy eyeliner, it’s clear my cousin decided to go out tonight rather than come to work and earn a paycheck. And yet she’s still here looking for money. I wish I could say this is the first time that happened. Cue eye roll.

“Dirty whore,” Esteban says again.

The parrot has about eighty-two phrases in his vocabulary, and none of them are fit for polite company. For some reason, when a particularly flamboyant celebrity came to the Fishbowl one night about fifteen years ago, he brought Esteban with his entourage. Instead of taking the bird when he left, he gifted him to my mama as a present because she was so amazed by him. Pop was pissed, but Mama convinced him that Esteban would be a great addition to the place.

He’s been here ever since.

Despite his shocking vocabulary, I can’t help but love him. I mean . . . how could you not love a parrot that drops the F-bomb at least a dozen times a day?

For the sake of business, I do try to keep him quiet at night so he doesn’t freak out customers. Once I tried to move him up to my apartment, but he screeched for two days straight until I brought him back down to the bar. He considers himself some kind of watchdog and actually knows how to bark, which I think is impressive as hell.

I have no clue how old he is, but at this rate, I’m pretty sure he’s going to outlive me and the bar.

“Is that a parrot?” Boone Thrasher is off his stool and crossing the room before I can stop him.

Frisco isn’t the least bit of help. He’s sputtering into his beer, laughing his ass off. He tried rapping with Esteban the first night he came into the bar, but gave up when Esteban squawked, “You sound like shit.”

I glare at Frisco, but he just laughs harder.

“Please just—” I start to tell him to leave Esteban alone, but Brandy wobbles on her heels.

“Oh my God, am I just shitfaced or is that Boone Thrasher?”

Thrasher stops five feet from Esteban’s cage and cranes his head toward Brandy, who already has her phone on and the camera flashing.

I think it’s safe to assume he’s never coming back here now. Not that I wanted him to. No matter how well he fills out that T-shirt.

For the last two hours, I’ve been making the least intrusive study possible of the man, and while his face has been lined with tension and frustration, he didn’t look downright unfriendly until just this moment.

He closes the distance between him and Brandy in less than a second and rips the phone out of her hand. His fingers fly across the screen, and I assume he’s deleting the pictures.

“Can’t I have one night of goddamned privacy?” He bites the words out with a glance at me that carries an accusation of betrayal.

Brandy raises both hands in the air before adopting a breathy tone. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Why don’t you just come on home with me and I’ll make it all better? You don’t ever need to think about that cheating slut again.”

The atmosphere in the bar crackles with fury as Boone’s gaze shifts to Brandy.

“The f*ck did you say?” The question comes out like a growl from between gritted teeth as his chest rises and falls.

Boone Thrasher is not a small man. My best guess, he’s six feet tall, two hundred twenty pounds, and when he straightens his shoulders, he looks like he’s about to rain the wrath of God down on my cousin for running her mouth.

What is she talking about? I dig through my brain for the celebrity gossip that I try to avoid but seem to absorb through osmosis anyway.

Thrasher has a girlfriend . . . a skinny blonde whose sound is more pop than country. What is her name?

Ruby? Jade? Some kind of gemstone, I think.

When Brandy stands there stunned and mute, Thrasher repeats his question with menace. “The f*ck did you say?”

Brandy’s mouth drops open as she slaps her hand against her push-up padded chest. “No. Way. You haven’t even heard, have you?”

Frisco pops off his stool, probably because he’s seeing what I’m seeing, which is Boone Thrasher two seconds away from losing his shit.

“Whoa there, Brandy. You might want to watch your mouth when you’re talking about Boone’s girl.”

Brandy, never one to be accused of having excessive IQ points, half laughs, half coughs. “Well, she sure as shit ain’t Boone’s girl anymore. Amber Fleet married some bajillionaire Hollywood producer tonight in Vegas and told TMZ, aka the whole world, she’s gonna be the biggest star on the planet.”

“Dirty whore,” Esteban crows right before the room goes silent.





6





Boone





I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but it takes everything I have to keep myself from slapping the words back between this bitch’s tobacco-stained teeth.